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that night, Jin slips out of the hall after dinner, before he can get roped into anything too obnoxious. the closer the wedding gets, the more tightly wound everyone seems; the more energy bounces off the walls when scullery maids and footmen and kitchen boys alike are all crowded in to eat.
at home, the kitchen staff eats together, in a hall about this size. they send platters of food off to other halls, where other classes of servants eat, but they stay separate. when a valet comes to the kitchen for his master's food, they bow in respect. when the stewardess storms in searching for a maid who snuck off to gossip with her sister, Jin's father offers his apologies.
"see you tomorrow," Felix calls, and pulls Jin in for a quick embrace before he can escape. Jin smiles back, a little shaky, and follows the shaky oil lamps back to his borrowed bedroom.
as he lies on the hay-stuffed bed and lets the candles burn down to their wicks, Jin thinks about the prince. he must disguise exhaustion well, he thinks, to be so familiar with wandering at night. he must work as hard as Jin does, albeit at different things. even Yoongi has had to learn history, and literature, and the name of every noble in the country, and he's the youngest son of a minor Lord. Jin can't imagine the minutia that stuffs the prince's day.
he wonders if it's the minutiae that keeps the prince up at night, wonders if maybe it could be the recollection of a chandelier-lit ball and the feathered masks that had floated by them and the gentle silk-gloved hands on his waist-
Jin wonders himself into a quiet sleep, and wakes up long before the first rooster calls.
at first, he tries to tug the blanket up to his chin and roll back over, for what his body is telling him should be two more hours of sleep. there's no light in the room; there's a half-remembered hint of smoke in the air from when the candles must have burned themselves out. Jin sits up in bed, and stares at the dull sliver of light underneath his door, and sighs.
he makes his way to the kitchen clutching onto the same yellow blanket, dragging one hand along the wall in the absence of a candle. tonight, Jin doesn't wait to start one of the lower fires, needing the light more than anything, but he measures out tea leaves and sets out water to boil almost as an afterthought. the tea is cheap and bitter, but-the cook won't begrudge the prince some sugar, Jin is sure.
Jin tugs out the heavy bags of flour, and chops pears into thin slices as slowly as the low light requires, and waits.
the door creaks open before Jin's knife even begins to still.
"oh," the prince says, quiet, like he hadn't expected it. Jin finishes with the first pear, slides the slices to the corner of the wooden board. he reaches up to fix his hair, to drag it in front of his eyes no matter how difficult it makes baking. "may i?"
Jin doesn't answer. he steps over to the fire instead, the hearth set deeper into the wall, and pours hot water over the tea leaves. the ceramic lid of the teapot makes a quiet sound as he rests it over the top, before he walks it over to the work table. the nights are cold, even in the late spring, and he hesitates for a moment before he removes his hand, letting the towel he'd used pool on the table.
